


Intermezzo

by confettiinmyhair



Series: Fever Dreams [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Insomnia, M/M, Masturbation, Medicinal Drug Use, Nightmares, Sleep Deprivation, Sleepwalking, mention of canon-typical gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-06-07 08:51:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6797356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/confettiinmyhair/pseuds/confettiinmyhair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will's sleep disturbances worsen, and his acquaintance with Hannibal grows ever more complex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intermezzo

_He could feel the blood gouting from his shoulder, trickling its way down his arm. He felt the lips move against his skin, now against his own mouth, the warm, metallic tang heavy on his tongue now..._

He tightened his grip ever so slightly, eyes still shut tight, clinging to the sensation of the dream as he moved.

He was so, so close, could feel the cramping tension in the back of his thighs, and -

He was vaguely conscious of turning his face into the pillow in the last instant, allowing himself to practically shout a few muffled blasphemies as he worked himself through the orgasm, past it, only stopping once the oversensitivity got legitimately uncomfortable.  
  
He wiped his hand on the far corner of the bed sheet, deciding to leave cleaning up until after he woke back up.

It was a few moments later - basking in the endorphin rush, turning his face so he wouldn’t smother in the pillow, stretching his legs and half-grinning as he felt the muscles relax - that it hit him.

He’d done it again, god fucking damn _all_ of it.

**

In abstract, it wasn’t even remotely surprising that Lecter had begun showing up in his dreams. Everyone in his life would, inevitably, wend their way into the nocturnal ramblings of his subconscious.  
  
It wasn’t even particularly surprising that Lecter had found his way into Will’s nightmares, considering that nightmares had been the typical mode of his dream states for as far back as he could remember.  
  
They were nightmares, as was typical for him, but they were something altogether new.

They were quasi-erotic nightmares, and he was _enjoying them_. The thought made him want to vomit.

It seemed that his body and his subconscious were resolutely ignoring the entirety of his waking mind, and he hated it. He hated how peaceful he felt after those dreams.

He _hated_ that his mind was transmuting his (he would hardly try and deny it to himself) lingering physical desire for the man into something so violent.  
  
More often than not, he’d wake to find that if he hadn’t already come during the dreams, he was in the midst of rutting against his mattress or that he’d gotten a hand down the front of his boxers, desperately trying to bring himself off before he was awake enough to realize precisely what he’d been so aroused over.

His subconscious mind was apparently rather involved in the idea that it would just be absolutely _delightful_  if Hannibal Lecter were to literally tear him apart, and the sickening contentment that accompanied the nightmares was horrid.

*

It would hit him throughout the day and destroy his thought processes - the little waves of guilt and shame.  
  
It was bad enough that he was having more and more trouble pulling himself back from crime scene analysis, but the fact that he kept having these thrilling, disgusting dreams about a man who considered him a friend? Who he must also consider a friend, at this rate.  
  
This was entirely too goddamned much.

**

Having acknowledged all of that, the onset of the sleepwalking was at best a mixed blessing.

He was quickly becoming convinced that this particular cycle of sleep disturbance might actually kill him.

He was getting (at best) an hour of restful sleep every night, and sometimes, not even that.

Waking up in the middle of the road three miles away from his house (or in the woods behind his house) (or lying in a bath he didn’t remember drawing and getting into) (or on the edge of his roof), not sure if he was even still dreaming, was confusing and terrifying.

He just wanted a simple night’s sleep.  
The insomnia was chipping away at him faster and faster, and he just wanted it to end.  
  
He wanted to have his depth perception back. He wanted to stop feeling like he wanted to claw his own skin off, like he was holding in the same scream for days on end.

His stomach was killing him from the near-constant daytime coffee intake, and the ache in his eyes only getting worse.

He wanted to feel like he was making any contact with the ground when he was walking.

On the one hand, he supposed, he wasn’t waking up practically cripplingly aroused at the thought of Lecter up to his elbows in his innards anymore, for now.

On the other hand, half-consciously jacking off to the thought of his own death had at least helped him sleep at night.

He just wanted his own sideways version of normal back.

**

They didn’t discuss what had happened in Minnesota.

Not that Will felt that the subject would actually have been taboo. Quite the contrary, in fact, as he was becoming more and more convinced that Lecter didn’t possess any personal concept of the term.

They just… didn’t. Lecter had never brought it up, and initially, Will hadn’t seen the need to.

Sweet, easy peace? For crying out loud, if _only_.

No, they wouldn’t talk about what happened in Minnesota, wouldn’t talk about the last really solid night of sleep he’d gotten.

“Might change the aftershave,” Hannibal teased.

Will turned and walked towards the door slowly, checking his pockets for his keys and his wallet. He was not going to do this now.

“I’ll look into it.”

He felt Hannibal’s hand close gently on his shoulder, and he stopped dead. The man’s fingertips pressed gently where he’d bitten Will. The bruise had faded weeks earlier, but the intent was obvious, nonetheless.

Will let out a slow breath, hoping that he hadn’t actually shuddered with the palpable and sudden relaxation he felt.

“Let me at least give you coffee for the drive home?”

“I wasn’t -” Will caught himself, taking a moment to rephrase what he’d almost said. “That would be wonderful.”

“You weren’t what?" 

Hannibal didn’t move, and Will resisted the urge to just stand there reveling in the little contact. His hands clenched into fists a few times as he breathed to steady himself, and he felt Hannibal’s hand slip away finally.

"I wasn’t -” it came out as a whisper, and he swallowed to start again, glanced over his shoulder to speak, “wasn’t going home just yet.”

Hannibal looked at him searchingly for a moment before he nodded.

“I understand. Paradoxical urge, though, no? You resent most forms of contact with strangers, but you don’t mind sating yourself with them.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“I don’t doubt it. Keep it impersonal, get it over with, and you avoid the emotional aspects of the interactions.”

Will didn’t answer immediately, but felt himself slowly begin to nod.

“I just…”

“…need to unanchor yourself entirely, sometimes?”

He nodded again, and Hannibal tilted his head slightly.

“And if I were to offer an alternative?”

Managing to somehow hold in a snort of laughter, Will shook his head.

“You can’t just walk out on me, here. Or would you just show me the door?”

Will blinked at the harshness of his own voice, rubbing his hand over his face.

“I’m sorry, that was - unecessary.”

Hannibal paused, seeming to process something.

“Did you feel jilted?” he asked, his voice dropping into that deep rumble for a moment.

“I felt confused, frankly. Slightly rattled.”

With a nod, Hannibal raised his eyebrows before he responded.

“How long has it been since you actually slept?”

Huffing out a laugh, Will stuck his hands in his jacket pockets.

“That’s hardly-”

“Coming up on two days? To say nothing of how restful the sleep actually was,” Hannibal intoned, and Will sighed.

“Sounds about right.”

Hannibal nodded.   
  
"I think I may have something."

And so Hannibal led the way to his office, with Will ambling behind, and set to searching through a desk drawer

“Try this,” Hannibal said, holding out a little plastic case in offering. Will only reluctantly pulled a hand free to accept, glancing at the label on the cassette.

“Guided relaxation?”

“It was merely an idea.”

Will looked at it for a long moment, holding back a cutting remark, and nodded.

“Thank you.”

**

He still hadn’t driven straight home, had still followed through with his earlier plans.

The attempt had been for naught, had ended in him bolting out on the woman he’d met, had ended with him bringing himself off back at his car - but had, nonetheless, ended with him passing out in his driver’s seat for two and a half hours.

He mused, later on, that he probably should have felt worse about possibly giving the woman some sort of bizarre complex.

He was too fucking exhausted to care at the time, though.

**

It was two weeks before he finally got around to listening to the recording.

He was desperate by that point, and for as much as it felt like snake oil to him, he was willing to try.

He was surprised at first, to hear Hannibal's voice coming from the speakers.  
  
It got him to sleep, though, and that was something he wasn’t about to take for granted.

And of course, of _course_ , it was only a matter of time before his subconscious mind took it and twisted it, though he supposed he was thankful that for once, the arousal came without the sickeningly bloody imagery.

Still violent, yes, but without the images of entrails and the sensation of flowing blood.

For once.

**

“I finally got around to trying that tape, actually.”

Hannibal nodded to him, the vaguest hint of a grin on his lips.

“Effective?”

Will nodded, then shrugged.

“It… was, for a little bit less than a week." He let his eyes slide shut, not wanting his expression to give him away, adding, "I think I desensitized myself.”

“But the sleepwalking has stopped?”

“Best as I can tell, it’s been about four days since it last kicked up. I seemed to have been wandering less at the end, though. Last time, I…” he smiled to himself, savoring the memory, “I actually woke up huddled down with the dogs.”

“Surrounded by family, hmm?”

Will nodded, and felt himself slumping back slightly against the back of the chair.

“Was that the last time you slept?”

“No,” he said, opening his eyes back up and taking a deep breath to try to re-focus. “Two and a half days, give or take.”

Hannibal checked his watch, and nodded.

“Let me put you up for the night.”

Will looked at him blearily for a moment, determinedly not picturing the dream he’d had about being mounted up onto the antler display. He felt the tendon in his neck twitch, knew it gave him away somehow.

“I’d hate to impose.”

“Nonsense.”

*

It’d been twenty minutes since the pill Hannibal offered had taken effect, and he couldn’t stop running his fingertips over the fabric of the pillow he was half-heartedly clutching as they spoke about Will’s dreams.

He’d taken off his jacket and shoes, but remained otherwise clothed.

He didn’t quite remember leaving Hannibal’s office, but knew that he must have made it to the man’s living room under his own steam (this was not a dream) (this could not be a dream) (his vision was far too blurry - he never needed glasses in his dreams).

“It’s interesting, though. Do you exclusively see yourself as the victim now?”

“Not always. It shifts.”

He looked up at where Hannibal was seated in an armchair and was struck by a flash of the man spattered with blood, and shook his head, shutting his eyes to try and chase the image away.

 _Not now_ , he thought.

“Not what?”

He opened his eyes slowly. Had he said that out loud?

“Nothing. Little snippets have been… crossing over into my waking hours.”

Hannibal regarded him quietly for a moment before he spoke.

“What did you see?”

Will looked back down at the pillow and shook his head slightly, concentrating on the texture of the fabric against his hand.

“You really wanna hear this?”

“I do.”

Not looking up from the pillow, Will chuckled lightly to himself, felt the calmness overtake him, felt his mouth forming the words before he could give it more thought.

“Sure. Sure, why not.” He took a deep breath before he went on. “I’ve dreamt about you, on occasion.”

“Sexually.”

It wasn’t a question, not really. Will nodded.

“Yes, in a way, and they have been… especially distressing. Especially distressing to _me_.”

“Is the idea really so uncomfortable?”

“In... this case, yes. Personally disgusting. And yet? And yet I feel so calm afterwards.”

“You regret what happened between us?”

“What?”

He finally looked up, made the briefest flicker of eye contact with Hannibal before he answered.

“No, it’s the context. I don’t… enjoy having all of that violence melded with my sexual impulses. Not that I mind, you know, some controlled violence,” he said, rubbing idly at his shoulder to make his point, “but… not like that.”

Hannibal raised an eyebrow at him, and he felt the words more than he really spoke them.

“I kept waking up aroused at the thought of you murdering me. That’s…”

He didn’t finish his thought, and Hannibal paused before he answered.

“For what it’s worth, I don't bear you that kind of malice, Will. "

Will felt the chuckle welling up in his throat, felt the little euphoria rush as he licked his lips, let the words form properly before he answered.

“That’s just it, isn’t it? You never did. I mean, it never felt painful. It felt so… trusting, and right. How fucked is that?”

He hugged the pillow to his chest, let himself laugh at the notion even as he felt his eyelids drooping finally.

“Sleep now,” Hannibal said, standing after a moment, stepping over to place a hand on Will’s shoulder again. “We can talk more about this later.”

Will nodded slowly as his eyes slid shut, felt the hand leave his shoulder, felt the laughter finally fade as a blissful void overtook him.

**

He awoke well before dawn, initially unsure where he was.

When his mind regained a shaky sort of traction, he clutched a hand over his already-closed mouth.

His watch told him that he’d managed a good five hours, though, and he was reasonably certain that he’d metabolized the drug. (Had he ever even asked what that pill was? He wasn’t entirely sure.)

His jacket was folded on the coffee table with his glasses perched neatly atop, and his shoes were set on the hardwood floor beneath.

He sat up carefully, unsure of anything but his nearly painfully full bladder. He knew where the hall bathroom was, and let himself stop thinking until he made use of it.

It took him approximately thirty seconds after walking back into the living room to get his shoes back on, slip on his jacket, and decide that he should probably just get home.

He was relieved to finally have that off of his chest, but it didn’t make the situation any less _weird_.

**Author's Note:**

> This installment was originally published [here on my tumblr, lo these many years.](http://hoverboardbandit.tumblr.com/post/49320132346) It was inspired by certain ficlets that are linked to [here.](http://hoverboardbandit.tumblr.com/post/49419499739/) (While those are not absolutely necessary for understanding this installment, they are nonetheless a delightful little series from the ever-lovely exorin.)
> 
> This version does vary from the original posting, as I simply felt the need to tinker at it before reposting it here.
> 
> The unspecified time leaps between segments was intentional, though I would say that they take place over a month, perhaps two.
> 
> The exchange where Hannibal offers him coffee happens during Coquilles (1.05). I can't particularly remember, at this point, where the rest of the segments were meant to fall.


End file.
